


Translucence

by chocolatemilk2



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: First Person, I just love jimlock, I'm guessing there will be smut eventually, M/M, WIP, casefic, jim pov, post-reich, waxing rhetoric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemilk2/pseuds/chocolatemilk2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them died at Reichenbach, and now Jim gets to play the villain again. But this time, Sebastian is at stake, as are Jim's feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Translucence

You are beautiful in the way special things are.

Your silver eyes shine with the light of curiosity, and your hands trail down your coat in excited sense creation. You smile and your whole face flushes. You are happy about the stupidest things. About me.

Only indirectly, of course. One more riddle to unravel, one puzzle to pick, a crime to solve. But it’s my crime. It’s my crime, Sherlock, and I’m so excited for us.

I wonder how happy it makes you, that there are still thrilling, mystifying, extraordinary secrets for you to find in the world. Or how happy it makes you to put them away. Behind bars. You have a heart, you know. They all think you don’t. But there’s a reason you’re with the angels. You’re not like me.

Buried secrets. You can never know about this, my dear. No matter how much I tease and flirt and pry, it’s all play. It’s all mocking how at ease I am with my identity and obviously not you, the secret devil, burning in hell. It’s not even that they might use it against me, me, infallible no one ever gets to me Moriarty.

You’d see me lesser. Like they use to. Can I have a hug mommy what do you want that for. That’s not a part of the image. Your bad actor is showing.

Sherlock, you make a marvellous fraud.

I might’ve even fallen for it, had I not known and suspected. God knows your loveable pet fell hard at your feet. Oh Sherlock, no, please, don’t leave me. It’s disgusting, isn’t it? How easy they can be fooled. How ignorant they are.

I wonder how different your smile would look now, if you knew I was behind the superficial crime I’ve lain on your doorstep. Already your brow is furrowing. Not as simple as it appears, is it? The Birthday Killer. Buries victims alive in graveyards, leaving numbered candles as tally marks. Why graveyards? You don’t know. But it’s more complicated than that. They’re not in order, they deplete, but the victims aren’t growing any less. It’s a countdown. What is it a countdown to? I can’t wait to see your theory quashed in person.

How different would that easy grin be, if you knew it was me, if you realized I was still alive? Come on, who else loves an egg timer as much as I do? Surely you took that much from my last game.  It’s been too long since we played. But you’re just so over the moon and round the garden to be back at the flat with the pet cat. I can’t wait until you find a body buried in your grave. I’m going to steal it and put it back, mark it number one. You are my number one, honey.

Oh, but you’re so happy to put it all behind you, darting in the cab with the good doctor at your heels. This is your first case since you have returned, as well as me. The case of the Dumb Detective. Please fix it, Jim.

And here I am, perplexed, hurt, that you haven’t realized it was me. It’s me, Sherlock. Look at me. Look at me, mommy.

You step out of the cab, my bus keeps rolling on past. I get off a block away and sit down at a bench in the cemetery. Only twenty one and three quarter metres away.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? You got everything. I O U and the three snipers and my network, set up to kill them if they suspected. And you got everyone. I’m so pleased to have made a man out of you. Does DI divorced wife know you’re a murderer now? They’re all finally right about you. And you got everything, except what mattered. The inner circle, but not my best man. My pet, the live in. Sebastian Moran, an actor hired by James Moriarty to trick Sherlock Holmes.

It’s delicious. You always get all of it except the core. The code. And then you do. It took you awhile. As it will for the Birthday Killer. You’ll have the proofs, but your conclusion will be wrong. Oh, my dearest Sherlock Holmes. Oh.

I’m at Highgate Cemetery with you, I’m undisguised in a tailored Betsey Johnson, but you’re so wrapped up in the crime scene you haven’t even noticed. Lots of people wear suits to funerals, I suppose. Not you. John looks uncomfortable to be here. Good. Go on, put it together. Who else kills recreational swimmers? I’m dropping so many hints for you right now and you’re missing them by a mile, it’s so embarrassing. And you call yourself a genius. Have you forgotten all about me my dear, deleted and purged my existence like a common criminal? No, I’m too good for that. I’m seared into the centre of your mind, scorched like a cursed memory.

You’re up in a flash, snuffing the burning red and white candle – 6 – out with a breath. “Cake,” you declare, and it’s enough to make me giggle. Of course I fed them their cake before they died. Lindsey Hapton was turning 17, but she only got to blow out one before the drug overtook her system and she collapsed against the wingback chair. Homemade, easy peasy to slip deliriants into the milk. It was so funny. First slice of cake for the birthday girl. Knife unclean, got to kiss the nearest boy. Knife scraping brother’s chest tenuously. Danger. Black out. Kidnap.

So, Lindsey Hapton, I have a present for you. Would you like it now or later? It’s going to be a great surprise. Close your eyes. Count to ten. Now open. Would you like some more cake? No, it’s not dirt, don’t say that about my cooking. Eat up. Keep going. More now. That’s good. Aren’t I making you feel good?

“Her breaths smell like cake beneath the dirt,” you expand at the look. Show time. “The candle is still lit, so the murder has to have been committed not long ago. See, the wax has barely melted it in half. Anonymous tip came too soon to be realistic for a buriedbody found considering that at eight o’clock in the dark Friday night a witness is unlikely-- cemeteries aren’t exactly lit up at night. The killer handed himself in, he’s looking for recognition. The fact it is a birthday crime means they feel neglected, crime of vengeance rather than passion. The victim voluntarily buried herself; no signs of struggle on the body. Psychological manipulation. Possible ingestion of hallucinogen by dryness of eyes, dilation redundant with relaxation of muscles in death. Conclusion: the killer dosed the cake and convinced our victim to bury herself. No sane young person would do such a thing elsewise on such a momentous occasion. The killer will have had to have broken into her house since she evidently could not drive so far intoxicated.”

“Oh, you _would_ know all about working with hallucinogens,” says a female officer, who you shoot a silencing look at.

“We’ve already interviewed the family,” the DI says apologetically. “None of them knew what happened. The power went out as soon as she blew out the candle. There weren’t any visible signs of a break in.”

Duh. She spiked the milk herself. Door was open. I invited her out. Come on, figure it out, Sherlock.

“What about the first victim?” John asks. “Were they taken from their home too?”

“No, they were at a public party. McDonald’s,” you say. Already memorized the report, you have. “If you can trace the source of the power cut you can see where the killer came from.”

“Power surge,” says the DI. “None of the electrical wires were snapped.”

Maybe next time I’ll switch it all off at the fuse box, just to mess with their heads. “Then locate the start of that anomaly! So there's a countdown from seven to one, the murders committed within the space of a day, at the end of the week the killer reveals himself.”

“How do you know that?” John Watson says.

“He’s already expressed an interest in communication with police, with publicity. Arrogant. He’s hardly going to kill again, but he may attempt to assert his authority via hostage situation, blackmail, the like,” you warn. “The killer is Caucasian, male, late-twenties to early thirties. He would have had to dig out the grave himself, as it wasn’t previously filled. That requires muscle. Burial site is not far from kidnap location, likely he lives in the area. Had to leave the scene quickly but felt assured he needn’t go far. You’re looking for someone in the area familiar with circuiting and with an access to illicit drugs. Happy hunting, come on John.”

“Hey, this isn’t so far from your house, is it?” the female inquires.

You freeze. Gotcha.

“Let’s just go,” John says. 

I stand and catch a widower’s eye, nod politely. It’s my Moran with his flashy gun.

Oh, if only you realized I’d been at it all along, Sherlock, you might have had a chance at this. You’ve forgotten, you buried me, just as John buried you. He was quite the distraction, ever the bore. I wonder how often you longed to return to 221b and happy reunion.

Our reunion will be grander.

Have you joined the dots yet? Do you think it some crazed Richard Brook fanatic attacking you personally? A second reverent reporter?

How good are your masks, do you know it’s me? Have you dismissed it in denial? Your face has barely loosened from its tight frown. Surely you would have told the sidekick. But you didn’t let him know before, did you?

Trust makes you thoughtless. I must be the only one who doubts what my own eyes see, to assume you survived when I watched you fall.

I think you never quite understood why I did it, except that I did. Because I wanted to finally lose and you gave me that and I never needed anything else. A victory in itself. It’s a conflict of interest. I always wanted to win, to be admired by you, and appreciated. I also wanted to see you, in all your intellectual glory, fierce, determined, and inspired. Victorious. It’s not enough to fix a problem. Sometimes you have to give yourself one. You’re my problem. My masterful finality.

I would say I’m disappointed in you, for not realizing I’m behind it, that I fired a blank. For acting ordinary, like an unrequited villain. But this is better, the illusion of superiority.

I won’t underestimate you this time. I can’t wait to see the moment your mind changes from bemused to only pretending. And once you know, baby you’re mine. I’ll swallow your attention and burn everything else down to the ground.

Moran tails me to the safe house. Maps and charts splay its walls. 221 C.

I call; "Honey, I’m home."


End file.
